Bent and Broken
by JenWhoRocks
Summary: EC pairing. Erik makes his way to montmartre after the fateful night of don Juan. Adventures ensue. I didn't realize you people were still reading this. Updates soon, I promise!
1. Chapter 1

-1Erik. His name was Erik.

It seemed important somehow to hang onto that fact.

He had to keep reminding himself, "I have a name. My name is Erik. I am Erik."

But he didn't have another name.

What was wrong with him, he wondered. Why had his mind bent? Why had he allowed himself to sink into madness? How had he allowed himself to hurt the only thing he held dear?

Christine. Beautiful, sweet loving Christine. _His_ Christine, if only for that moment when their hands met in a silvery flash of cool gloved fingertips against hot, welcoming flesh; and suddenly they were the only two people on earth.

But then that pretty boy, his rival, that vicomte, had found his way to Christine's door and shattered the spell. In that instant, his bottled up nightmares and his consuming love--his obsession--for Christine had collided, snapping his mind in two.

Erik moaned. He'd broken everything in that first moment of jealousy.

He hoped that Madame Giry had truly forgiven him. He'd terrified her mercilessly since that night.

He hoped Meg didn't have nightmares about his destruction.

He hoped with every aching fiber of his soul to know that Christine did not hate him.

He even hoped that Raoul didn't blame Christine for all that had happened. It hadn't been her fault. It was his fault. Erik's fault.

"I am Erik," he thought, guilt momentarily stunning him. "It is my fault, because I am Erik."

It hurt him to admit that he--and not the Vicomte--had been the one causing pain. The Vicomte had only been protecting his love.

"He protected her from me," Erik whispered. "It was my fault. I am Erik."

Erik rose painfully from the blackened remains of his lair. _Never a home_, he thought sadly. It was time to move on, to leave the wreckage behind. The twin pains of guilt over his destruction and the black shadow of his insanity propelled him finally towards Montmartre.

Thoughtlessly, he stumbled through the tunnels and catacombs beneath Paris, until collapsing hours--days?--later.

Montmartre. Compared to his dead Opera House, it sounded like salvation.

In Montmartre, he could hide, he could heal, he could finally rest.

In Montmartre, he could at least find the materials for a new mask, and some clothes that were not torn and soiled. Shopkeepers there knew his tastes, he visited them often enough. In Montmartre, even a man as bent and twisted as Erik could live with little questioning.

He vaguely wondered how far he was from his destination. He hadn't realized how little attention he'd paid to his surroundings.

As he stood again he hissed in sudden pain. Glancing down, he dropped back to the ground, half his mind numbing again with shock.

His right leg was covered in blood--now dried mostly, but Erik could see fresh red oozing from the deep gash on his thigh.

He bit his lip at the pain.

This must have happened days ago, he realized, sniffing the wound curiously. He wrinkled his nose at the sour smell of infection.

Finally, his knowledge had become useful.

Shakily, he rose from the ground a second time, realizing the pain would only get worse as he waited.

The first step was agony. Erik clutched the wall, nearly unable to support himself.

The second step was worse.

The third step had him hissing once more, as he slid, defeated, down the tunnel wall.

He looked around him, faint light from somewhere ahead illuminating the path before him. He thought he recognized the carvings leading to the mask shop he favored.

Using his good leg and his hands, he pulled himself forward.

Erik bit back a sob at the pain. It was almost as bad as standing had been.

Gritting his teeth, he pulled himself forward again. He was so close to relief, to the outer world, to Montmartre, where he could find a doctor and a pain free life.

He found himself--minutes or hours later, he wasn't sure--in the basement of the mask shop. He was relieved he'd finally made it--until he realized that this was merely the basement.

Erik crawled to the ladder in the corner, leading to the store above. Determined, he forced himself to stand.

He had to use the wounded leg to climb the ladder. Each time he rested his weight on it, he clenched his teeth to keep in his screams.

When he reached the top, he forced open the trap door and pulled himself into the deserted shop.

Deserted. No one was here.

Erik rolled onto his back and looked toward the windows. In the moonlight, he could see an assortment of masks. Some leered while others grinned, expressions ranging from the menacing to the comical. All were laughing at him.

Erik closed his eyes. It was the middle of the night. No one would arrive for hours.

He was--for the moment--alone again.

Pain overtook him, and he let the sensations wash over his body.

Behind his eyelids he conjured up the image of Christine. She was so young compared to him--a delicate nineteen. Her face taunted him with it's youthfulness.

Was he truly thirty? the decade between them seemed unfathomable. Would it have been his fate to grow older and uglier before her eyes while she remained beautiful and fresh?

_Perhaps_, Erik mused,_ it is better this way._

Christine's image flitted across his thoughts and he let himself drift with her. He lost track of time and place, dreaming of the only thing he'd truly lost.

He hadn't realized he'd fallen asleep until he woke up.

Erik tensed. Someone was watching him. Then the pain flooded back and he involuntarily gasped at the shock.

A cool hand stroked across his forehead. Erik looked up but the face above him was shadowed and back-lit by a single lantern, left by the stairs.

The hand traced it's path again, and he realized the person was a woman.

She shifted, and he felt her shift his head to a better position in her lap. He stirred, but she stilled his movements.

"Quiet now, it's all right. I'm here. I live here. Just rest. I'll find your mask."

Erik felt the woman carefully shift from under him, and he coudln't stop the whimper as she left him. The loss of contact seared deep into his soul.

Her voice had sounded eerily familiar.

Christine. She sounded like his Christine.

No. Christine was gone. More than likely she'd married her pretty Vicomte by now, or another man, much worthier than Erik. Someone less frightening than Erik.

"I am Erik," he whispered. "It is my fault."

The woman--who couldn't be Christine--returned and gently laid a familiar shape over his face.

"There" she soothed. "Lay still, Erik. I'll help you up when you are more rested."

"But the patrons," he murmured, then corrected himself, "your customers--?"

"It's Sunday morning. Very early. We aren't open today. Now please, Erik, rest."

"My name--"

"I know. Shh. It's Erik. Your name is Erik."

He listened intently to her pronunciation of his name. Would Christine say Erik in the same, tender way?

"Christine," he whispered, his voice breaking slightly as he remembered.

He reached for the woman's hand, forcing himself to find her eyes, to make her understand.

"Tell her!" he pleaded. "Tell her...I am so sorry."

The woman shifted, and their eyes locked, as she answered, "I already know, darling."

In his mind, cool, gloved fingertips met hot flesh once more. "Christine," he breathed.

_It wasn't a dream,_ he realized as she squeezed his hand. _It was a miracle._

"Erik," she begged, her voice filled with unshed tears, "please don't leave me."

Erik thought that if he hadn't been in such pain, he might have laughed at Christine then. He hated to say it, but he'd suffered much worse as a child. Besides which, he only suffered what he deserved, after the catastrophe of the Opera House.

"It's my fault," he repeated. "I am Erik."

He must have said it aloud, he realized, because Christine was holding him again, and silently crying.

She shifted his body as she tried to quiet him, and sparks of pain shot through his leg and into his chest. His sharp hiss of air and knee jerk reaction to the pain made Christine let go of him, and shriek.

"Erik, your leg," she stammered. "I have to get a doctor! I have to go..."

She began to move, but Erik felt the shadows of insanity closing in on him as she moved away. Desperately he grabbed her wrist.

"Don't leave me," he begged, the madness catching his voice in his throat and causing his breath to hitch. Christine looked helplessly at him. He knew she didn't know what to do or think. He let her go, his release of her wrist painfully gentle. "Christine I love you," he whispered.

Biting her lip at his obvious pain, Christine knelt beside him again. "Would it help if I got you upstairs? The shop owner lets me live up there..." She shook her head at his helplessness. "At least you'll be comfortable.

"Don't leave..." he moaned.

Christine chewed her lip as Erik took her hand, his grip nearly crushing her delicate bones. "I won't leave you," she breathed, knowing that he would take her fetching the doctor as a breach of that promise. "I won't leave." Her teeth continued to worry her lip.

The journey upstairs lasted for what felt like an eternity. Erik tried not to lean too heavily on Christine, but the pain and the fatigue overwhelmed him, and he slowly allowed his weight to transfer to her. Christine didn't complain, and Erik tried not to wince with every step.

Pain shot up his leg with every movement. He gritted his teeth again, and held in his screams.

"I am Erik," he repeated, each time he uttered the phrase he felt somehow better, more able to bear the horror of the wound. Christine kept shooting him glances he could not read when he said the words, murmuring words meant to be soothing. All he could think was that she was sure to be frightened of him, somehow, when daylight came and she could see the monster she was helping.

And then, with the achievement of the flight of stairs behind him and the softest bed he'd ever lain on beneath him, he watched Christine's face fade into blackness.


	2. Chapter 2

Erik woke up next to Chirstine and thought for sure he was dreaming. Sunlight played gently across her features, her mouth curved into a content smile as she snuggled deeper into his side. Erik swallowed a moan, because he remembered all too well the events of the previous night and the pain he had been in.

Tentatively, he flexed his torn leg.

His gasp of pain disturbed Christine. She blinked slowly, rubbed her eyes and smiled at him. His pain disappeared at her sunny smile. 

"Oh, Erik. You really are here."

"Christine," he breathed. "Oh, Christine...Dammit!"

Christine jumped at his curse. "What have I done?" she demanded, rolling off him and sitting up to see him better.

"It's not you," he gritted out through his clenching jaw. "I did this myself."

Understanding dawned on her, as she took in his negligible clothing and his still oozing gash. "I'll call the doctor."

She hopped nimbly out of bed, and Erik envied her the easy mobility. She wrapped a dressing gown around her before padding down the stairs. Erik groaned at the thought of those stairs. It had taken what felt like an eternity to get himself up those stairs last night. He groaned again, as his leg began to throb. The pain increased by the second as he waited for Christine to return. He fought the tears that threatened as he lay waiting. He didn't want Christine to see him cry again.

Christine meanwhile, was downstairs, cleaning up the mess she'd made the night before. Her hurry to get Erik to her bedroom and to safety had prevented her from properly caring for the trap door, and she couldn't let the doctor see that. Nor could he see the path of blood leading up the stairs. It was too grusome to remain in anycase. She hadn't realized how badly he had been bleeding. Her breathing hitched as she scrubbed, quickly doing away with the evidence of her darling's advent.

Once finished, she dashed back up the stairs to her budoir, quickly changing from her evening clothes into the same black dress she'd worn to her father's grave that day...

Christine shook herself from remembering and turned, but before she could leave the room, she heard Erik moaning.

He was moaning her name. The desire to run to him and help him nearly overwhelmed her, but she needed to get to the doctor. So she ran down the stairs and out the door, forgetting to lock it behind her in her haste. The doctor was only a few shops down, and she banged heartily on his door until he opened up and followed her back to the Mask Maker's shop.

"Please Dr. Musine, he may be dying. He's lost so much blood," she panted, tripping up the stairs to her darling Erik.

Dr. Musine followed at more sedate pace, until he saw the patient. "Good God! That man needs a hospital, not a doctor! He needs a transfusion, he's hallucinating, he's probably infected...what possesssed you to wait until now to call me?"

"I--I'm sorry, but you never come to the door in the night, and he was so tired, so I let him sleep..."

"Miss, this is not entirely your fault. That wound has been there for at least two, maybe even seven days. He's been over using it and not properly covering it. And he's obviously not even checked with a doctor to see what needs to be done. It's completely untreated."

"Doctor, he can't go to a hospital, it took me ages to get him up here! You'll just have to do what you can. I'll donate my blood if you need it!" Christine felt herself beginning to crumble. She was about to burst into tears. Oh, it was her fault, the doctor didn't know, it was her fault, she had left him and now he was dying...

"Christine..."

"Erik!" she gasped. The doctor raised an eyebrow, but allowed her to run to her beloved's side. "I'm here, darling..."

"Christine, don't leave me..."

"Never, darling, never. I'm here."

"Miss, this is no time for confessions. Move aside. I need to see that leg." The doctor pushed Christine aside and bent over Erik, then turned to Christine. "Young woman, I hope you have a good stomach for gore. You're going to have to be my nurse."

A/N--Sorry this took so long. I had E/C Writers block and had to work on something else. And besides, I hadn't planned on a multi-chapter story, but due to overwhelming calls for more, here I am, posting again. (JenwhoRocks gives a crosseyeed look at her stunning collection of male movie star pictures and continues typing) Anyway, if you really do like this and aren't just making things up, tell me. And btw, let me know how you like the doctor. I'm not sure if I like this version of him. He may change later on. Or I may write him out of my fic. Ah, the power...


	3. Chapter 3

Curse the pain in his leg. Erik realized he was delusional when he saw not the doctor but an old gypsy and Christine as an Angel. Not that she wasn't, but surely she didn't really have feathery wings?

He cursed himself, his pain, his face, his leg and everything else he could think of, while watching the doctor's needle and thread turn into a string of pearls and one of Carlotta's horrible hat pins. He growled when the hat pin started talking to him. It kept telling him he could fly away from it all if he just let the pain exist and stopped fighting it.

"Twice cursed Italian hat pins," Erik moaned aloud.

Christine looked down at him worriedly. Erik thought she looked beautiful with the halo of light behind her. Suddenly Erik could take the throbbing, stabbing, spiking pain in his leg no longer. With an agonized scream, he clutched Christine's hand, knowing he could very well break her fingers with his grip. His pain shoved his caution to a very small place at the very back of his mind.

He felt himself sink into full on hallucinations...

_Carlotta was singing Christine's part in Don Juan, doing a horrible job, sounding like a goat and murdering his lyrics with her Italian accent. Suddenly his lasso shot out from his hands and pulled her off stage, where a veiled and mysterious Madame Giry pulled off the rope, slapped her and then the pair began dancing. Erik screamed again, as the pain burst though his hallucination._

_Suddenly there was a deep, pulsing, throbbing sound, something so modern even Erik didn't know what it was, and the music it held gave him the most delicious headache. He began to laugh hysterically as Raoul fell from the opera box, his managers grew tails and leathery wings and swooped down to save him, missing him, and then the Chandelier fell, crushing everything out into absolute darkness._

Erik awoke with a moan that startled Christine out of her quiet haze. "What happened?" he demanded, realizing that his mask was gone and his leg didn't feel quite as hellish anymore.

Christine looked around, confused at first, then her eyes lighted on Erik and she remembered why she'd been in the stiff chair and not in her soft bed.

"Erik!" she cried, as she realized that he was awake. "Are you feeling better?"

Erik snorted, disliking her all too concerned tone. _She had better not think she gets to be my mother while I'm healing,_ he brooded. Aloud he muttered. "Marginally. Where's that doctor?"

"He went home. He did everything he could, but said that until you'd slept out the infection, he couldn't do anything else to help. He mentioned coming back in a week or so..."

"Christine," Erik said, stopping her flow of useless words. "If you don't stop talking, I promise, I will go back to the theater and leave you here."

Christine flushed at his threat, realizing she had been babbling. "I'm sorry Erik. I seem to have lost control of my mouth..."

Erik quirked an eyebrow. She quieted. "Now then, to distract you from blathering, perhaps you would oblige me and help me sit up?" Christine did so, her face coming in achingly close contact with his own face and neck. After she had her Phantom upright, she sat next to him.

As he studied her, she reached out slowly and touched his face, the right side, the scarred side. And then she touched the left side.

Erik stayed still, watching her movements.

Finally she leaned in closer and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

"Are you hungry? It's nearly supper time. I'll go find something to eat." She rose from the bed and left before Erik could protest, but he did feel hungry. Perhaps, something to eat would be a good idea, he mused.

He couldn't remember his last meal.

Within minutes, he could smell a lovely, thick stew bubbling in one of the adjoining rooms. Christine reappeared, a white apron tied across her dress, and a tray in her hands. She sat back on the bed and slid the tray onto his lap.

Before he could take the spoon from her, she scooped up a spoonful from the bowl and brought it to her lips, blowing on it carefully before feeding the bite to him.

Erik was stunned at the young woman's grace. Had the positions been reversed, he would never have thought to feed Christine himself.

Before she could finish feeding him the second bite, Erik guided her hand back to the bowl and made her release the spoon.

"Is anything wrong?" Christine demanded. "Is it too hot?"

"No, it's perfect. But I want to ask you something," Erik murmured.

"What?" she asked, her eyes clouding with concern.

"Where is your Vicomte? Surely he must be worried about you?"

Christine sighed. "I knew you would ask this eventually. I did hope you would be a bit stronger. He's married now, you see, and I don't want you getting all jealous and going over there as soon as you're better and finding him and killing him. Or maiming him."

Erik ground his teeth together, frustrated. "Dammit! Why did you marry him? Why did he allow you to leave him?"

"No, see, you didn't understand, just like I thought you would. I didn't say _I_ married him. I just said he was married."

"Christine, stop this NOW, or I _will_ go kill your Vicomte."

"But he _isn't_ my Vicomte any more. He's married Meg."

"Damn you Christine!" Erik cried in relief. "Never do that to me again. I thought I'd lost you. And you promised, you said you'd stay with me..."

Christine giggled at his petulance, he seemed so like a child sometimes. Then she noticed he hadn't let go of her hand.

Delicately, he picked it up and kissed the palm. She watched him, fascinated by his affection.

He kissed the tip of each finger, careful to be gentle, then quickly pulled her toward him, capturing her lips with his. The kiss was sweet, their lips tangling together in a timeless pattern, each touch sending chills of fiery heat down their spines.

Carefully, Erik broke the kiss. "There," he said. "Perfect."

Christine blushed. With a flustered smile she continued feeding him the stew.

Erik let her, his mind churning. He'd kissed his Christine. She hadn't kissed him, he'd kissed her. And she hadn't shied away from his touch.

Erik swallowed the mouthful of stew, and tried to relax. He could figure this out later.

There would be plenty of time to think later.


	4. Chapter 4

For days after the kiss, Christine and Erik drifted through life in a kind of haze. Neither one wanted to admit that soon they would have to figure out what to do with their lives, whether or not to stay in France. Christine especially didn't want to lose the precious moments she had with her Erik. Even though it was only that one kiss, she desperately wanted something more to happen. Every time she looked at Erik her lips tingled, and she felt that pulling sensation in her stomach that, once upon a time, Raoul had given her with his kisses. The same pulling sensation she'd felt when she kissed Erik in his lair. The sensation that made her realize she loved Erik, and not Raoul.

But as Madame Giry was fond of saying, all good things must come to an end. And for Christine, the day came far too soon.

She was downstairs, working in the shop, when she heard someone shouting in the street. Curious, Christine rushed outside. A young boy from the opera--Christine thought Buquet may have been training him to take over one day--was fiercely staving off the attempts of the crowd to help a woman who seemed to have collapsed.

"Oh, Mamselle Christine!" the boy yelled when he saw her. "Come quickly! Madame has fallen!"

Christine rushed to the prone form, elbowing through the growing crowd. She gasped when she saw who the woman was. "Madame Giry!"

"She insisted upon finding you herself, Mamselle," the boy said, his tone anxious. "I tried to make her stay, but when Madame decides something..." he trailed off, and Christine gave a wan smile.

"I know. It is all right. You may return to the opera if you wish," Christine told him. She knew Giry would never speak of something that had weakened her so in front of a gossipy opera brat, no matter how trusted he was.

"Thank you Mamselle," he nodded, and hurried away.

Christine didn't watch him go, she was more concerned for the mother of her best friend. Madame Giry was not a woman prone to fainting fits, or to hysterics. Whatever was wrong--and something most certainly was wrong--was very grave indeed. Christine fished out the small vial of smelling salts the doctor had left, in case she needed to rouse Erik and found him in too deep a sleep. Almost as soon as she'd uncorked the camphor and held it under Madame's nose, the older woman jerked awake.

"Christine Daae, get me out of this street at once," Madame Giry demanded.

A/N--Sorry it's been so long. Thanks to anyone out there who actually reads this, your sporadic reviews make continuing easier. Don't worry, I have an idea of where to take this now, so things should be updated more often. And by the way, if anyone out there would like to become a beta for me, I could use one...


	5. Chapter 5

Christine sat across from Madame Giry at the big wooden table in her upstairs kitchen. Erik was asleep in the next room, and Christine kept her voice low as she passed his door, so as not to wake him unnecessarily.

"Christine, I need his help."

"But Madame, he can barely get out of bed for over a minute at a time! How can he help you?"

Madame Giry looked carefully at the table, biting her lips in an uncharacteristically nervous gesture. Christine waited, not knowing what else to do. Madame rarely got this upset about anything, not even when the Chandelier fell and Erik had captured herself and Raoul.

"Christine, I have to tell you. You will know what to tell him to get him to help."

"Please, Madame, you are frightening me. What's the matter?" Christine leaned over the table and took Madame Giry's hand, trying to comfort the woman who had been mother and friend to her for as long as she'd known her.

"It's Meg. Oh, God, it's Meg and Raoul. I haven't heard from them in far too long. Then suddenly--" Madame Giry broke off, her voice choked and breaking with the thought of whatever had happened. "I received a letter from Raoul."

Christine was tense as Madame Giry reached into her reticule and pulled out a faded, tear-stained letter, written in Raoul's distinctive handwriting. Christine smiled momentarily at the knowledge that some things never change, but quickly sobered at Madame Giry's suddenly tear filled eyes. Christine looked closely at Madame, and saw for the first time that she'd aged incredibly much in the weeks since they'd last seen each other. Her eyes looked as though she not only knew the secrets of the world, but carried them inside her, and could no longer handle the weight of them. Her lips had thinned, and Christine noticed several streaks of white in the formerly pristinely blonde hair. Even Madame's hands had changed. They were still strong, but Christine thought that maybe, even though they could break someone else's bones, they could also be broken themselves now. As she took the letter from Madame, Christine knew that there would be no turning back if she read the missary from Raoul.

Gently, Christine unfolded the letter. It was a single sheet of paper, but Raoul had cramped as many words as he could onto the front and back of the thin sheet. Slowly, Christine lowered her eyes to the page and began to read.

_Dear Madame Giry, _Raoul began,

_I know that Meg writes you regularly, and you must be concerned due to her silence. Well Madame, the truth of the matter is, even I do not know what has happened to Meg._

_Last evening, I returned to our hotel room, intending to take Meg out to the Theater that she loves so much. When I entered, however, I discovered that out rooms had been ransacked, and there was no trace of Meg. At first I was glad that Meg had not been there when the perpetrators had entered, but after a night and morning of worrying and no sign of Meg or her return, I realized that not all was as it seemed._

_Within several hours time, I was delivered a handwritten note from Meg. As you can imagine, this relieved me intensely. However, the contents of the letter were nowhere near as soothing as they were at first glance. Meg and I are fond of referring to Operas in our correspondences, and she mentioned that she would soon share a fate not unlike Tosca's. I was truly startled at this, and re-read the letter several times before I caught the gist of what she was attempting to tell me._

_I did hope to spare you the news, Madame, but I am at my wits end and can find no other recourse but to ask you to find help on our behalf. If I am correct, and I may not be, Madame, I may not be, but if I am correct, Meg has been kidnapped by someone who wishes me pain. You cannot imagine the tumult I am in as I write to you, not knowing exactly who has kidnapped your daughter, my wife, and not knowing whether even as I write to you Meg might not be making her way back to me._

_I do fear that she may already be dead, Madame, as I have had no further contact from her, and this silence makes me fear the worst._

_Please, Madame, I beseech you, send me some comfort, some help, someone from Paris, someone I know I can put my faith in to help me find my darling Meg._

_All my heart cries out to you,_

_Raoul._

Christine shook as she finished the letter. She laid it gently on the table between them. She thought Raoul had been slightly cruel in his revealing of events to the poor woman across from her. But she also knew there was probably only one man who would make the journey from Paris to where ever it was that Raoul and Meg had gone.

"Oh Madame," Christine breathed.

"Please, you will convince him to help my darling?" Madame Giry pleaded.

Christine nodded. "Of course. I couldn't deny Meg any help I may be able to provide her."

"I thought I could count on you," Madame Giry sighed. "Thank you, Christine."

The older woman looked so fatigued, and Christine knew that she and Erik had just been summoned back to the real world. She blinked back a tear as she helped Madame Giry down the stairs and called her a carriage for the journey back to the opera. As they pulled away, Christine looked up at the Mask Shop and saw Erik at the window. It was time to tell him of the trouble Meg Giry and Raoul de Chagny had gotten themselves into.

A/N--For those of you who don't know, "Tosca" is an opera by Puccini (same guy who wrote "La Boheme"). In the opera, Tosca, the main protagonist, uses her feminine wiles to save her lover, who is killed anyway, and then dies herself, committing suicide in her greif. You can see why Raoul might be slightly worried at Meg's mention of her fate being that of Tosca's. Also implied is the danger to Raoul, Meg's lover. If Meg is portraying herself as Tosca, and Raoul is her lover, Meg is implying that Raoul is in danger as well. And while Raoul may not have notice or mentioned his own danger, Christine has obviously not let it slip by her.

Love to my fans! Two updates in the same night! Lucky, lucky you.

And I am truly sorry if my Madame Giry is OOC. However, I cite artistic liscence as the fault of any mistakes I may have intentionally or unintentionally made.

Jen Who Rocks.


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